Belan had wanted to become a blacksmith since he had the strength to lift a hammer. His mother was a blacksmith, and her father before that. He had generations of this work in his blood; he had the same love for the forge that his ancestors had.

And he took the responsibility with pride. Working for the nobility was an honor his family had held for decades, an honor he clung greatly to. It was an art form. He took great pride in the swords he had so perfectly weighed, the armor so perfectly fitted to each noble.

“Your highness — to what do I owe the pleasure?” he lit up, immediately setting aside his work as the royalty stepped in. He paused briefly before giving a clumsy bow, an attempt at a more formal greeting.